


it ain't much I'm asking (if you want the truth)

by autumncolour



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), POV Third Person, Porn with Feelings, References to Depression, Season/Series 13, Sibling Incest, mild sexual coercion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumncolour/pseuds/autumncolour
Summary: Sam looks pissed, but Dean has learned that there are several degrees in the Sam Winchester Scale of Annoyance. The look he’s now getting is maybe a three out of ten. And Sam is not physically stopping him from hitching up his shirt a bit more, which Dean is pretty sure Sam would do, if he wasn’t secretly into this and just trying to make a point.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	it ain't much I'm asking (if you want the truth)

**Author's Note:**

> Set somewhere around episode 13.11, when Jack and Mary are missing and Sam mopes around the bunker.

The tiled floor is cold against Dean’s bare feet as he pads along the bunker’s corridor, his steps a muted _tap tap tap_ in the silence. The sound reminds him of raindrops pattering against Baby’s windows, and that makes him think of nights spent in drafty motel rooms, sharing body heat in a single bed, first out of necessity and later by choice, and that thought brings him right back to the present. At Sam’s door Dean doesn’t let himself hesitate. He knocks and barely waits for a reply before he opens the door and steps in.

“Hey,” Sam says from the bed. He’s sitting half under the covers, leaning against the headboard. An old paperback rests against his chest, its spine mercilessly cracked open.

“Hey,” Dean says.

_Then_ he hesitates.

“What’s wrong?” Sam puts the book down and sits up straighter. He looks dead tired but also determined to get up and do whatever needs to be done. It breaks Dean’s heart a little.

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Well, nothing new anyway. I just . . . Uh. Wanted to talk.”

“Okay.” Sam glances at the clock on his bedside table. “Can it maybe wait until morning? I was kind of trying to fall asleep.”

Dean reaches behind himself to push the door closed. “Sorry about your sleep, Sam, but no it can’t.” He advances on the bed in slow, measured steps. “I lied. I didn’t come here to talk.”

Sam sighs. “Dean,” he says. The set of his mouth tells Dean Sam’s figured out what’s going on. “Look, I—I’m honestly exhausted, okay?”

“Yeah. Because you’re depressed and can’t sleep.”

“I’m not—I’m not depressed.” Sam’s brows knit in indignation. “I’m just . . .”

“Moping around and suffering from insomnia for the hell of it? Come on.” Dean comes to a stop beside the bed. He plants a knee on the mattress and straddles Sam’s thighs. “Well, whatever it is, I know a cure you haven’t tried yet.”

“A cure.” Sam doesn’t even bother making it a question.

“Yep,” Dean says. “Sex.”

“Yeah, that—I got that from you sneaking here in your PJs and climbing on top of me.”

Dean slips his thumbs under the hem of Sam’s ratty t-shirt. “Look, Sammy—“

“Dean.” Sam crosses his arms. “You _do_ realize that what you’re doing right now is kinda pressuring me to have sex with you?”

“Yeah, and?”

“And that’s maybe not something you should do?”

Sam looks pissed, but Dean has learned that there are several degrees in the Sam Winchester Scale of Annoyance. The look he’s now getting is maybe a three out of ten. And Sam is not physically stopping him from hitching up his shirt a bit more, which Dean is pretty sure Sam would do, if he wasn’t secretly into this and just trying to make a point.

“Normal people rules,” he says. “Don’t apply to you and me, Sammy.”

Sam closes his eyes and lets his arms drop. “Dean, that’s not how—“

“I need you to fuck me,” Dean says. He leans in and presses his lips against the bare skin of Sam’s collarbone. “Okay?”

Sam exhales, defeated. “Yeah, okay,” he says. His hands come up to slide over Dean’s sides and down his back, slow and strong. “But Dean, it’s gonna be quick. I’m honestly exhausted.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I’m here, remember?” Dean gives Sam a disarming smile. “To help you sleep better.”

Sam’s lips twitch with suppressed amusement. “Right. No ulterior motives.”

“Nope. Pure charity.”

Sam laughs at that. Dean considers it a victory.

“Did you prep?” Sam pushes a hand under the elastic of Dean’s sweatpants, drags his fingers over the curve of his ass.

“I did,” Dean says, suddenly breathless. “I even brought lube.” He fishes out the small packet and puts it on the bedside table. “In case you’ve become such a monk you don’t stock up on essentials.”

“I hate you,” Sam says, but there’s too much fondness in his voice for it to mean anything other than its polar opposite.

“I know you do.”

Sam huffs, and then he’s pulling the waistband of Dean’s sweats down as far as it goes, half exposing him. Sam’s fingertips brush against his crack and Dean’s breath hitches so loudly it’s a little embarrassing. He slides his palms up Sam’s chest and stares at Sam’s earnest eyes and parted lips, and thinks of kissing him, but doesn’t. He can’t quite bring himself to walk across that line tonight, and isn’t it funny, the things Dean Winchester is afraid to do.

“Your pants are in the way,” Sam is saying. He’s tugging at them and trying to kick his own legs free of the covers all at once, and only succeeds in nearly kneeing Dean in the nuts. “Sorry,” he says. “Dean, get off me. Lay down.”

“Alright,” Dean agrees. He rolls off Sam and settles on his back, and Sam says, “No. On your stomach. And take off your pants.”

His tone makes Dean flush hot with an odd mix of shame and arousal. It’s so matter-of-fact, full of relaxed authority, the kind that comes from knowing the other person really has no choice but to comply. It’s Sam’s FBI voice, Dean realizes, and then he tries really hard not to dwell on why it makes his cock leak a sticky trail into his pants as he squirms out of them. He kicks them to the floor, pulls off his t-shirt, too, then lays down on his stomach. He grabs Sam’s pillow and stuffs it under his chest for support.

The bed shifts as Sam settles behind him. His fingers trail up the back of Dean’s thigh. “Spread your legs,” Sam says, and before Dean has even had time to obey, there’s cold, slippery pressure against his asshole.

“You weren’t kidding about making it quick,” Dean says. He spreads his thighs, lets his knees draw up a little as Sam pushes a finger in. “Fuck.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Sam’s other hand comes to rest on his lower back. “But Dean, please, _please,_ tell me if I’m going too fast.”

“I will. Don’t worry.”

Sam exhales audibly. “Good. Second finger?”

“Yeah.” More cold wetness, then more pressure, and it’s a little too soon, and it’s perfect. “Shit,” Dean says. “Fuck. No, don’t stop, it’s good. It’s really good, keep going.”

“Keep that talk up,” Sam says, a little shaky, “and I’m not gonna last a minute.”

Dean grins over his shoulder. “Bet you can make it two, Sammy. I have faith in you.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Sam curls the fingers inside him, and Dean momentarily loses the ability to think in words. His cock presses against the sheets, in urgent need of attention. He ignores it. It’s enough to concentrate on the thrill of being worked open, the anticipation of being fucked into the mattress. Dean hopes Sam’s figured out that that’s what this is about, that’s what he needs, the adrenaline rush of a rough fuck, of finding release by walking the edge of pain. Sam’s being so careful, though. He keeps adding more lube—probably has his own stash, after all—and Dean doesn’t know how to ask him not to care so much.

“You ready?” Sam asks.

“Since yesterday. Come on.” Dean presses his forehead into the mattress. He expects to feel the head of Sam’s cock pushing against his ass, but instead there’s the sound of a wrapper being torn. He lifts his head. “Are you using a condom?” he asks, incredulous. “Really?”

“Yes,” Sam says. “With your risk profile, I’m not taking any chances.”

“Whatever makes you happy.” Dean lets his head drop. “Maybe it’ll help you last an extra minute. Now would you just _please_ hurry up.”

Sam grabs his hips hard, drags his ass up, and then he’s pushing in. Slowly, too slowly, and Dean nearly sobs at how perfect it is. “Fucking Christ in hell,” he says, and that makes Sam let our a surprised laugh and thrust in rest of the way, and that, too, is perfect. The sudden burn of being stretched open sears away all thought.

Dean tries to move, but Sam is keeping his hips still.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“I’m good,” Dean says. “Stop being such a girl and fuck me already.”

Sam doesn’t reply. He stays still and Dean doesn’t need to look to know the way his head tilts in annoyance. Then Sam is pulling out almost all the way and sliding back in, torturously slow, and Dean forgets how breathing is supposed to work. He tries to move again, but Sam is still holding him in place, and it’s almost what he needs. “Come on, Sammy,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Come on what, Dean?” Sam says, breathless. “Use your words.”

Dean groans in frustration. “You know what.”

Sam pulls back and pushes in again, almost as slowly as before. “No I don’t,” he says, and Dean knows he’s lying.

“D’you have to be so difficult about this?”

“I’m not the one failing to communicate my needs, Dean.”

Dean draws a breath and then gets it all out in one mortifying gush. “I want you to fuck me hard and fast,” he says, “and just this side of painful, because it’s the only way I can stop thinking for a moment and I really need that right now. Okay? That enough words for you?” He feels raw, like he’s taken sandpaper to his own soul. He can hear Sam’s breathing, quick and shallow, and he can’t bring himself to turn and look. Then he feels Sam’s hand on his upper back, a solid weight pushing him into the mattress, and then Sam is thrusting into him, picking up speed. Dean almost chokes on relief.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Sam says, his words clipped short, punctuated by panting breaths.

“Shut up,” Dean says into the pillow.

Sam laughs, a single puff of air. “You better make yourself come, and fast,” he says. “I seriously won’t last long and I’m kicking your ass out as soon as I’m done.”

Dean slides a hand down and grips his cock, and then has to grit his teeth and breathe in and out, nice and slow. Not yet, he thinks desperately. Not yet. A few seconds more, a few precious seconds where there exists nothing but the merciless burning pleasure of Sam’s cock in his ass and the white-hot static where all his thoughts used to be. But then Sam makes a tiny noise, a strangled hiccup of a moan, and Dean is coming so suddenly and so hard he accidentally bites his lip and nearly draws blood. Sam’s rhythm falters and then he’s coming, too, pitching forward, his hair sticking to Dean’s sweat-slicked back. His fingers grip Dean’s hips hard enough to bruise. Dean hopes it leaves a mark.

For a few breaths they stay like that, Dean sprawled on his stomach, Sam resting his forehead against the ridge of his shoulder blades, and for those few breaths everything is peaceful and quiet. Then Sam pushes himself up and pulls out, making Dean wince, and the world slams back into gear.

“Okay,” Sam says from somewhere above him. “That was—that was—“

“Good?” Dean laboriously rolls onto his back.

Sam’s already pulling his boxers back on. He pauses to look at Dean. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. Really good.”

“Good. I bet you’ll sleep like a baby.” Dean hauls himself upright and bends down to pick up his clothes from the floor. Something in his lower back shifts with a pop and he suddenly feels old. Old and sweaty. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says.

“You do that,” Sam says. He looks at the ruined sheets, then sighs and simply pulls the wet spot slightly to the side before lying down.

Dean gets into his clothes, not caring that he’s one big wet spot himself. He reaches to tousle Sam’s hair, and then—quickly, before he can talk himself out of it—bends down to kiss the top of his head. “Night, Sammy.”

Sam huffs, but it’s good-natured, and Dean pats his shoulder, and turns to go.

“Hey Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam blinks up at him, fighting sleep. “You good? I mean, I hope I wasn’t—”

“I’m good,” Dean says. “Go to sleep.”

He pads silently across the cold floor, steps out and closes the door carefully behind himself. A few paces away from Sam’s door Dean stops and turns to lean his forehead against the cool tiles of the hallway’s wall. His body feels curiously insubstantial, light and heavy at the same time.

“I’m good,” he says quietly to himself, and in some ways he actually means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed, as usual. Feedback makes me cry happy tears.


End file.
